


W.U.N.C. is on the Air

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [9]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 02:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10151162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Locked in a cell yet again, Illya receives a gift of birthday cheer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal's Section7MFU for the Short Affair Challenge  
> Prompt: Happy Birthday, Illya Kuryakin

  
Illya picked himself up from the stone floor, muttering Russian invectives about the retreating guards.  
  
“Are you all right?” Napoleon asked, as he considered a tear in the shoulder of his dress shirt.  
  
“No thanks to you.” Illya brushed dirt from his pajama pants. “Couldn’t you turn it off for one night?”  
  
“Hey, pal, she snuck into my room, not vice versa.”  
  
“What did you expect after oozing Solo charm at her all evening?”  
  
Napoleon paused in his inspection of their small cell to dart a resentful glance at his partner. “She’s a beautiful girl. How was I to know she was also the prince’s intended?”  
  
“Perhaps by giving the mission dossier more than a cursory glance,” Illya ground out. “You know, I don't require my birthday to be much different than any other day. But I had hoped my final one would be spent outside of a cell.”  
  
“Don’t be morbid. They may have caught me _en deshabille_ , but I did manage to retain this.” He pulled his communicator from his pants pocket. “However displeased he may be, Mr. Waverly won’t let them chop off our heads.”  
  
Illya lay down on a thin pallet and squirmed into a position of least discomfort. “You can have the honor of calling headquarters. I am going to sleep.” Within a few minutes he was snoring gently.  
  
He woke to the glow of sunlight in their cell’s tiny window and to the sound of the communicator. Napoleon opened it groggily and placed it on the floor between them.  
  
“Good Morning,” a woman’s voice trilled cheerfully. “I hear they’re sharpening an axe for you two.”  
  
“Careful. Napoleon dislikes morbid references to losing his head.”  
  
“Oh, is that what they're going to cut off?” Faustina asked archly.  
  
Illya chuckled in spite of himself. “Tell me Mr. Waverly has arranged for our release.”  
  
“He’s working on it, but diplomacy cannot be rushed.”  
  
“In other words, we will not be getting out of here today.” Illya surveyed the bare stone walls. “And me without a book.”  
  
“You won’t need a book, darling.” April’s voice came on the channel. “Not when you have WUNC.”  
  
A cadence of chimes sounded. “Yes, this is station WUNC, with studios in Slate and Dancer’s office, UNCLE Building, New York. Station WUNC operates on Channel R by authority of Heather McNabb of Section IV.”  
  
“Don't forget about me,” George Dennell interrupted. “Hi, Illya, Napoleon. You should see what they’ve had me rig up. I’ve got a record player patched in and—”  
  
“Cork it, mate,” Mark Slate advised. “Let’s not ruin the mystery for the audience.”  
  
“Oh, sure, sure. But wait til you hear my program, Illya. I do this great ventriloquist act—” George was once again cut off mid-sentence. Muffled conversation followed, as well as the faint whisper of the office door shutting.  
  
“Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,” Faustina said. “Technical adjustments.” The opening of Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ played. “WUNC will begin its broadcast day with prerecorded music. In local news, a new lock is being installed on Illya’s front door.”  
  
“Wait. What?” the Russian sputtered.  
  
A single chime sounded. “It is now 8:02,” Faustina continued. “Here are a few highlights of the exciting programs WUNC will be bringing you today. At ten the Uncle Players will present _Gone with the Wind_ , specially adapted for the airwaves from memories both vague and varying.”  
  
The theme music, whistled lustily, carried on for a few bars. “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn,” a voice recited in a strange hybrid of Received Pronunciation and Southern drawl.  
  
April laughed. “Rhett Butler to be played by our own Mark Slate, the poor man’s Rex Harrison.”  
  
“Easy now, luv,” Mark complained, followed by the smack of April blowing him a kiss.  
  
“Later we’ll bring you that scintillating soap opera, _The Many Loves of Napoleon Solo_. Will our hero lose his heart to the dusky-eyed beauty or just his head? Will he make it back in time for his date with Wanda?” April posed dramatically. “Stay tuned for the latest installment.”  
  
“You know, I had completely forgotten about that date,” Napoleon murmured.  
  
“And keep the dial here for that popular quiz show _You Bet Your Badge_ ,” Faustina said, “brought to you by Del Floria’s Tailor Shop. Two lucky audience members will compete for the grand prize of a brand new suit.”  
  
Napoleon put his hands behind his head. “Should I get pinstripe or a subtle windowpane?”  
  
Illya raised his brows. “Perhaps I will win.”  
  
“Win?” Napoleon scoffed. “I’ll lay odds you don't even get the Secret Word.”  
  
“Save it for the game, lads,” Mark said. “Speaking of odds, in the evening I’ll be on location in the gymnasium for the 3 on 3 Basketball Tournament. The Medical Mavericks remain the clear favorites at 1/1, but here is the full list of odds if you'd still like to place a bet.”  
  
While Mark spoke, Illya shielded the transceiver with his hand. “We are eight hours ahead of New York here,” he whispered.  
  
“True,” Napoleon agreed with a nod.  
  
“But they will be up all night.”  
  
“Apparently they think it's worth it,” Napoleon said lightly.  
  
Illya colored and replied, his voice tight with embarrassment, “And if Mr. Waverly learns of it?”  
  
“Ah, that's the suspenseful part. Will the Old Man catch them in the act? Only the Shadow knows.”  
  
With a roll of his eyes, Illya uncovered the communicator. After a few moments, his lips relaxed into a tiny smile.  
  
“Moby the Lobster, our station mascot, is here with our birthday greetings,” April said.  
  
“As usual he's dressed for the occasion,” Faustina responded. “From the rather rakish angle of his party hat, I'd say he started celebrating early. Mark, what names has he got in his claw this morning?”  
  
“Only one name today, luv, and it's a bit of a tongue-twister.”  
  
“My, and so it is. Well, we’ll do our best. All together on my mark.” The cadence of chimes rang out, then the agents called in chorus, “Happy Birthday, Illya Kuryakin!”


End file.
